


Frank Castle One-Shots

by asnanana



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Lovers, Parents, Sexual innuendos, Spies, Violence ?, i guess ??, probably some other things in here that i have no idea what to tag as, sometimes alternate universes, the Whole Nine Yards, wassup
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-18 23:17:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14862182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asnanana/pseuds/asnanana
Summary: A bunch of one-shots pulled from requests on my tumblr. Requests are open for one-shots, if you would like to submit





	1. Breakdown.

**Author's Note:**

> this one is based off of this request: "Frank has a breakdown and the reader comforts him"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off of this request: Frank has a breakdown and the reader comforts him

The world is spinning too fast for his eyes to catch up, and tilted too much on its axis, giving him no time to recuperate.

Everything is unbalanced.

The fire in the two-story warehouse is raging and the unforgiving heat is making him sweat involuntarily as he lies on the floor of this god forsaken place, surrounded by the untamed flames. Beams and the supportings of the roof above are falling all around him, but his body refuses to move.

His head is pounding, everything in his eye sight is swirling together and he can barely move a finger. He doesn’t remember how he got hit in the head, but he does know that the unyielding waves of nausea are a sign of a concussion.

He can see the stars through the broken roof.

Despite the imminent danger his life is in, he feels at peace; Suspended in time with no evil thoughts running through his head, almost tempted to succumb to the enticing flames of the fire and allow them to consume him, taking him to his final resting place, amongst the smoke and ash

It isn’t until he hears the distant sound of sirens that remind him of the situation. He won’t stop yet, not when he is so close. This is not the way Frank Castle is supposed to go out.

The flames are close enough to whisper against his neck when he finally starts to lift his body from the ground, despite his body vehemently protesting against it. He’s able to get to his feet when his progress halted by the seizing of his body to cough after inhaling so much exhaust, while unconsious and awake.

He finds an opening to the front of the building between all of the fallen debris that will lead him to the outside. The path from his would be grave to the outside is clear enough for him to travel unharmed, albeit slowly.

His body is involuntarily hunched over, his eyes squinted and hand ober his mouth as he slowly trudges towards the exit, dragging his numb left leg.

He’s so close to the exit when he remembers.

He didn’t come alone.

You were with him, wearing that stupid jean jacket with the skull printed on the back of it because it reminded you of him. He told you it was a waste of your money. You told him he was being a pessimist.

_“And besides, nothing involving you is a waste, Frankie.”_

Your voice rings so clearly in his head, even over the loud sounds of the fire destroying the area around him.

He doesn’t remember how the building caught on fire. He doesn’t remember how you got split up. It’s all a blur.

_The warehouse is dark, the whole lot quiet as you and Frank approached the solemn building. It had seen many times as it’s appearance was worse for wear. The fire escape was rusted and broken in half, all the windows shattered and the erosion of the concrete on the outside made the building seem hundred of years old._

_You and Frank spared a glance towards each other, very aware of both of your feelings about the situation._

_It was too quiet._

_The grey, metal door leading into the building was unlocked, another not-so-great sign. You followed close behind Frank, covering his back as he led you into the building, both of your guns drawn._

_You couldn’t see much but you could feel a presence within the building._

_“Frank,” you called to him quietly, “Someone’s here.”_

_And that’s when it went dark for him._

He can remember snippets: The metal hitting the back of his head, you screaming his name, darkness, the sounds of punching, a gunshot then another and another,  _“Frank, you good!?” “Yeah,”_  darkness, and then fire.

So much fire.

But one thing very clear to him in this moment: He can’t find you.

His eyes quickly bounce around the flaming debris, trying to see if he can find any semblance of you in the blazing obstacle course. Your jacket, a shoe, anything.

But he can’t see anything through the thick, cloudy smoke.

He can’t find you.

_Oh God_ , he can’t find you.

And suddenly, all the energy he thought he didn’t have, springs forward, filling his entire body to the brim with adrenaline.

He starts calling your name, his voice raw and guttural from all the coughing, hoping you would hear him. Hoping you would call back for him. Hoping he would hear something.

He doesn’t even feel the pain in his body anymore. You’re more important than any injury he could ever sustain. The sweat is dripping off of his body and mixing with the blood on his skin and he’s pretty sure he’s going to make his throat bleed with how hard he’s coughing, but he’s not leaving this building without you.

He’s ready to start lifting flaming peices of wood with his bare hands to try and find you, when he sees it.

Your pistol. The silver pistol with a 9mm caliber, you’re favorite kind of bullet. It’s reflecting against the light from the flames, and Frank feels his heart surge with excitement. The gun is in front of a fallen beam that was previously supporting a section of the second floor.

That means you’ve got to be close.

He moves to go pick it up when he feels a hard tug on the back of his jacket, pulling him away from the flames.

The tug is harsh and gives him vertigo and his senses are overloaded with all the unwanted information being put on him. His eyes are watery and he’s scarcely breathing.

He tries to fight against the hand, barely able to get the words he wants to say out, but the person tugging on him is much stronger than he is in his weak state.

“Come on, Frank! We have to get out of here!”

Frank doesn’t stop. He’s thrashing and tugging, his words mumbled together, “Find ‘er. She’s here! We gotta- no! (Y/N)!”

Like a disobedient dog on a leash, he tugs against the chain, yelling your name, still trying to find you.

“Frank! Stop fighting me!”

He doesn’t stops fighting, but he gets progressively weaker with each thrash. He barely has energy to walk, let alone fight back. But his heart is beating fast, and his breath is catching even faster. His eyes can’t focus in one spot, and the feeling of dread is overwhelming.

He’s experiencing death all over again.

His thoughts come flooding back in, as if released by the dam, and he can’t stay focused on one spot. Each evil whisper telling him various truths that he can’t swat away, no matter how hard he reasons. He tries to ignore them, but they’re parasitic, weasling their way into every small crevice of his battered mind.

_She’s dead._

_You’ve let another one die, Frank._

_Another notch on the belt._

_Did you really think it would last?_

_It was bound to happen._

His chest feels like it’s caving in on itself. He doesn’t realize his hands are shaking and he doesn’t even notice when his savior leans him against his car, a safe distance outside of the burning building.

He does feel the hands on his face; The thumbs resting on either side of his temple, focusing his eyesight on the person parallel to him, the red suit standing out against the swirling colors in his vision.

“Red,” Frank croaks out, “She’s- she’s in there Red.”

Matt is kneeling before Frank, examining all the tale tell signs of a panic attack Frank was exhibiting. He’s got a small window to fix things, but with Matt’s luck, that window is the size of a mailbox.

“Frank, I need you to calm down. I need you to take some deep breaths, okay?”

Frank violently shakes his head, “No. I need to- I have to get her. She’s gonna- fuck she’s gonna-” Frank’s trembling hands push Matt’s away, moving to grasp the car behind him to stand himself up, but quickly falling as his knees buckle underneath his weight.

Matt is quick at his side, placing his arms around Frank’s body to support him as Frank is seized by heaves. They sound like coughs, but similar to sobs. Matt can’t tell the difference.

Frank continues to swat at Matt’s attempts to support him, resuming his attempt to limp back into the burning building.He barely has time to explain himself.

“I  _have_  to get her Red. She’s still-”

The explosion is sudden and unwanted.

The debris and ash flying into the air, knocking the two men down onto their backs from the proximity of the blast.

The ringing is deafening in his ears, drowning him in the shrill sound with no sure way to escape.

The dust is slowly settling over them like a blanket, providing a jarring sense of finality to the situation.

Frank’s eyelids are heavy. The ringing is consistent, but lowers it’s volume enough for Frank to hear the sirens much closer than before, and the groans coming from Matt beside him.

There’s an ache that settles over Matt’s entire body when he tries to sit himself up, placing his elbows on his knees. It’s times like this when he truly hates his enhanced senses. He can hear every dust particle nesr him setting itself onto the ground as if it were snow, a dark, dirty snow.

The crackling of the fire is obnoxiously loud and accompanied with the sirens, Matt is signed up for a whole night of tylenol. That’s when Matt hears the muttering and the quick breaths. They’re coming from Frank.

“Oh God. Nonononono- God please no.” His voice isn’t any louder than a whisper, but Matt can hear everything. The pain, the restriction on his voice. He can hear the held back tears.

Matt turns his head to Frank in confusion, but Frank isn’t looking at him.

Frank is pacing, staring at the rubble, repeating your name over and over.

“ _Oh God_! Nonono- (Y/N)! I’m so sorry- oh god-”

And then Matt realizes.

“Frank-” Matt slowly calls out to him, “Frank listen to me-”

Frank sits with his back against his car, delivering a punch to the door with the side of fist. He places his shaved head in his hands, muttering and sniffling to himself.

_It’s all your fault._

_She’s dead and it’s your fault._

_When will you learn?_

He’s letting his mind take over, and he knows they’re right. He can’t hear anything but his thoughts. He doesn’t even hear the crunching of boots on gravel coming up to him.

Matt turns to the sound and he couldn’t be anymore grateful.

**  
You were beyond pissed off. This night job was shit. Utter shit.

Aside from dropping your pistol in the middle of a fist fight inside of the warehouse against some middle-aged man– who, in all honesty, really should be focusing on his own personal hygiene rather than trying to blackmail Frank Castle– and then having to chase said man out of the warehouse after he knocked your partner unconscious, lighting everything in his path on fire which, subsequently, ended up burning your $30 jean jacket that was  _brand spanking new_ , you just really did not want to have to spend your Friday night doing a job.

You ended up chasing the man to the docks a couple blocks away from the warehouse, knocking him out with a brick you found on the ground and dragging his ass all the way back to where Frank parked his car.

You had called Matt beforehand and asked him to keep his eyes over you both, just in case, so seeing him standing in front of the burning building is kind of a relief.

Matt turns to look at you, and apparently you must look like shit for him to have such a shocked look on his face.

You make “eye contact” with Matt, nodding your head to the now demolished building.

“Left my fucking pistol in there-” Matt quickly moves to the side, presenting a crouched over Frank he had been hiding behind his body. Your face immediately switches to one of concern, looking over to Matt quickly, your eyes relaying the question you had in your head.

The devil looks at you, his voice low and worried, “He thinks you’re in there.”

_Oh, fuck._

You’re on your knees in an instant, crouching next to Frank, gently but firmly calling his name.

**

“Frank! Frank, look at me-”

_“Hey sleepyhead.”_

“Frank! It’s me Frank! It’s (Y/N)”.

_“I’m gonna go get us some breakfast.”_

“Frank, please just look at me. I’m okay.”

Frank takes a sharp inhale of breath, quickly removing his palms from his eyes.

His vision is blurry, but he can see your silhouette outlined by the fire behind you. Your hair looks as though it were set a flame, but he can see your worried features and he can feel your warm hands on his arms, his chest, his face.

You look to true to be real.

“Frank, look. I’m right here, okay? I’m right here..” Your eyes are steady, staring into his, crouched down onto his level.

You can’t be real. He doesn’t have anything real.

He raises a shaky hand up. He won’t know if you’re real unless he touches you, right? He can make up feeling touches, but he- he has to actually feel your skin to know your real, right?

His hand is shaking and he places it on your left cheek, swiping the blood on your cheek away. He watches the flecks of blood smear under his action and he can see the blood stain the pad of his thumb.

_You’re real._

His hands are immediately wrapping themselves around you, holding you tight, breathing in every scent: the dirt, the smoke, the sweat, the blood, all of it. He’s never been more happy to smell such foul smells.

He lets out a shaky gasp, hus hand coming to rest at the back of your head, curling his hand against your hair and keeping you steady.

You’re holding him equally as tight, your arms wrapped around his torso. Even though your body is positioned in a slightly uncomfortable position, you won’t let him go.

“I’m so sorry, Frank. I’m so sorry.” You whisper against his leather jacket.

His grip tightens around you, keeping you so close to him, he can feel your heartbeat against his chest.

You continue to whisper things to him, hoping something you say will comfort him, will make up for the pain he endured.

And with each whisper, one evil thought slowly slips into oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to message me on my tumblr: @haztory; comments are always welcome!!


	2. "Do it. I dare you"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based off of the dialogue prompt: "do it, I dare you."

You open your car door with such an incredible force that almost makes Frank wince from his seat on the driver’s side.

On any other day, you would have a significant amount of consideration for his beat-up van—it’s a shocker that the thing is still alive—but since he’s decided that he wanted to be the world’s biggest  _dick_ today, all of that was thrown out the window.

You slam the door with an even stronger force that really gets Frank’s attention.

“Hey! Watch it!” he yells from inside the car to your retreating body. He wasn’t sure if you would actually be able to hear his complaint from his position on the inside of the car to your body outside of the car, but the middle finger he receives from you tells him otherwise.

He exits his car with a sigh, before quickly making his way to follow your stomping figure.

You leave the parking lot and head to the lobby of your apartment building, body exhibiting your anger in all tell-tale ways: stomping feet, tense shoulders, tightly pulled face and rough gestures. You know, the whole package.

You end up scaring your neighbor who was leaving as you were entering, by pulling the door open too fast for her liking that makes her gasp loudly (if we’re being honest, it was a little dramatic. But what do you expect from a washed-up actress from the sixties?) and look to the other people in the lobby.

They all stare at you with curiosity, rightfully so. Who  _wouldn’t_  be concerned when one of the tenants of the apartment building comes in, arms up about who knows what, with a large man dressed in all black and bruises on his face, following in behind you?

You.

You wouldn’t be concerned.

You would mind your  _own_  fucking business because this is Hell’s Kitchen for Christ’s sake. Something shady is always  _fucking_  happening.

You pay no mind to the other people, instead heading over to the elevator and roughly pushing the ‘up’ button. You can hear the whirring from inside the shut doors, but the elevator isn’t coming down fast enough so you push the button four more times. Because that’ll make it come down faster, right?

Frank settles into his place next to your fuming body, and you can feel his occasional glances on your body. It’s annoying.

“Would you stop?” You growl at him, shifting your head to him but refusing to make his eye-contact. You already have the attention of the other people in the lobby, you don’t need to make this any bigger than it already is.

Although a part of you wants to explode and just see what happens. But you respect Frank too much to do that because you are a good person who deserves to go to heaven with all the bullshit you put up with.

“What, I’m not allowed to look at you?” His voice is gruff and low and it sends shivers down your spine, but it also irritates you to a point where you want to just slap him even though you  _know_  he would catch the hit before you could even stop it with his big, strong hands and his-

“Just,” you shake your head vigorously, trying to get your thoughts to stop in their place before they reach a destination of no return, “Stop. Please.”

You’re not sure if you said that to him or to yourself.

The whirring behind the closed golden doors is still very loud, but the elevators aren’t coming down fast enough. Every second feels like an hour, every pair of eyes feels like it’s boring into your back and you feel like you can barely breathe. Your lips are facing the brunt of your emotions from the force of your teeth.

You’re angry. You are so angry at him for being such a rough and broken and dangerous and sweet and funny and sarcastic dickhead.

He makes you feel a rage that no one else can make you feel and you want to push him away, but you know you would only beg for him to come back. You want to heed everyone’s warnings about him, but you know he is  _nothing_  like they say he is.

I mean, yes, he can be a massive jerk that just gets under your skin no matter the situation, and he has literally no sense of personal boundaries, always managing to place himself  _too close_  to you in situations where it is more than unnecessary, but it is also so comforting to feel the warmth of his body against your back.

And he always laughs at your expense, like an actual asshole, whenever you tell him a stupid story about you falling at work, or saying the wrong thing in front of your boss and as annoying as it is, you would  _gladly_  fuck up every day for the rest of your life if it meant that he got to smile.

Because his smiles are so mesmerizing and beautiful. Whenever you see him smile time seems to stop. As lengthy as they sometimes feel, they are gone the second they came, always leaving you wanting more.

Oh, and Frank’s large furnace of a body does nothing to help you either. His body is so warm (honestly, whose body is  _that_  fucking warm? Not any normal person’s) that you can feel the heat from a mile away. His presence is so palpable that it’s hard to ignore. He’s…  _god_ , he’s Frank! He’s so distracting! You can barely think with him near you.

You want to punch him and push him and yell at him and grab his face and put his hands around your throat and make him squeeze until you’re gasping in delight-

The elevator doors open with a ding! and you are forced out of your cacophony of consuming thoughts. Your body propels itself forward, entering the area and pressing the button that says “6” on the panel a bit too roughly. Frank follows in behind you.

You finally feel like you can breathe (although not by a lot) when the doors close, effectively separating you from the tense lobby filled with invading eyes to the small space between two physically restraining people who are just dying to yell at each other.

Oh, this is  _definitely_  better.

The quiet space between you two manages to give some time to just reflect on the events of today.

Starting with you waking up late and realizing you literally had no clean clothes for work that morning, forcing you to drown your dirty laundry in perfume and have to just suck it up and head to work, followed by being skipped over for that promotion you worked so hard for only to find out it had been given to John Gleeson, your cubicle neighbor who isn’t even at work half of the time.

After the shitty day, you called Frank and asked him to join you at the bar for some much-needed down time (cause, y’know, friends do that shit) and everything was fine until a man groped you which made Frank throw a punch and all the attention turn to you both and then the general public realized, “Holy shit, that’s Frank Castle” and you’re pretty sure that someone got a picture of the both of you towering over an unconscious, drunk man.

So, yeah, you’re a little bit peeved off right now.

And the little voice in the back of your head is getting you  _fired_.  _Up_.

It’s speaking louder than all of your thoughts, combined. It’s yelling at you to initiate the conversation, to rid yourself of the tensions, to just get it over with, despite the opposing voice meekly saying in the back of your head to “just wait”.

Any rational person would listen to logical side of things, but when you’re under the trance of anger and annoyance, you tend to be riskier with your decisions.

So, you decide to pick a fight.

In an elevator.

At eight in the evening.

On a Tuesday.

Because, why not? Let’s add more shit to the already shitty day.

“Alright,” you say, breaking the tension of the silent elevator, turning your body to stare at the man leaning against the opposite side of the wall, “What the fuck were you thinking?”

He stares straight ahead, keeping his eyes glued to the elevator doors in front of him. He’s making it very clear he is not going to answer your question.

“Nononono, that is not how we’re doing this,” you quickly move from your side of the elevator to stand in front of him, forcing yourself into his line of sight, “We’re going to talk about this, because that shit back there, was unacceptable.”

Frank looks down at you, his eyebrows furrowed and his body defensive, “What was I supposed to do? Huh? Let him touch you like that?”

“You should’ve let me handle it,” you cross your arms over your chest.

He shakes his head, tearing his eyes away from your and looking off to the side, “Guys like that don’t stop. It’s just a slap on the wrist, wouldn’t have done shit.”

“Well you shouldn’t have gone in guns a-blazing and punched him!”

“Only way to get him to stop.”

You run your hands through your hair in frustration, “Are you even listening to what you’re saying? That’s not—Frank he was drunk—“

Frank shifts his posture, hunching his body over and pointing a finger at you, “Don’t make excuses for him (Y/N)-”

“ _And_ , we were in a public setting Frank. It’s risky enough for you to be in public, let alone fucking attack people in a crowded bar!”

He turns his head to look back at you, his eyes narrowed and a condescending tone in his voice, “Why don’t you tell me what this is really about?”

“Don’t take that tone with me, acting like I’m the crazy one. This is about you being fucking stupid, Frank. That’s what this is about. How many times do I have to say it?”

He scoffs, shrugging his shoulders and staring off into air, “I wasn’t going to let him touch you— “

“They got your picture Frank! They took a picture of you standing over an unconscious man! You really don’t think that’s going to be a problem?” You yell at him, your anger reaching a breaking point at his stubbornness. A short silence befalls the elevator, the whirring of the gears filling the silence.

You stare at the side of his face, your eyes darting to the different features: his stubbly jaw that clenches occasionally, his repeatedly broken nose, the scar on the side of his shaven head.

He’s tragically beautiful. Anyone can see that, even if they’ve got a film of anger over their eyes.

You let out a deep sigh, your anger slowly ebbing away as the silence grows stronger. You scratch the spot above your eyebrow, “Everyone’s going to know you’re alive.”

Frank leans his head against the wall of the elevator, glancing at the glowing buttons that show the elevator was still moving from the third floor to the fourth.  _Slow ass elevator,_  he thinks to himself.

He can see you shaking your head from his peripheral. Sure, you’re angry, but you’re not mad at him. You’re worried. (Which is even worse.)

“I don’t care if— “

“Well I do!” You voice cracks, the emotion visible within those three small words and Frank can feel his stomach drop, “I really do care. I care about what happens to you, Frank. Because despite how much we argue and how angry you make me sometimes, if something were to happen to you, I— “

You drop your head, unable to look at his deep eyes or his bruised face. You can barely think; your head is no longer coherent, all the thoughts melting into goo. A heavy, toxic goo.

“I wasn’t going to let him get away with touching you like that,” his voice is gentle and it, unintentionally, pulls your head up to meet his gaze, both of your eyes staring into each other’s. Your bodies are very close to each other’s, your chest almost touching his left shoulder.

“Why?” you press your lips together, “Tell me why. Give me a reason why you’re willing to just risk it all for some guy that touched me the wrong way!”

He stays silent, his eyes switching from staring into your left eye to your right eye, then down to your bruised lips from the continuous biting you’ve done and he can slowly feel his resolve withering like a fraying rope.

You raise an eyebrow at him, unaware of the internal battle he was going through, “ **Do it. I dare you**.”

And then it all goes out the window.

It happens so fast you barely have time to react.

His body faces you, too quick for you to notice, and he places one hand on the column of your neck and the other on the back of your head, pulling you roughly to him.

His lips are surprisingly soft on yours as they slant against yours and you can’t begin to even describe how many times you’ve imagined this scenario happening. Your anger is immediately gone replaced with a bliss that, unsurprisingly, only he can provide.

You feel fireworks throughout your body and chills are sent down your spine with your heart beating fast and your body reacting faster.

You don’t notice when you push your body into his and you also don’t notice when you place your hands on the side of his face and pull him harder against you. (You do notice when his tongue swipes across your bottom lip and you very willingly give him access.)

As fast as it started, it ends. The elevator doors open with the familiar ding! and you are abruptly pulled out of the blissful embrace as he pulls away. Your eyes are still closed and your body feels as though it were swaying.

When your eyes open, you find an unfamiliar look in his eyes that start a burning between your legs. There’s a fire and determination in those deep brown eyes, and you would love nothing more for him to unleash it out on you.

You only get a brief look at them before he walks out onto your apartment floor, leaving you behind. You stand there, mouth tingling, legs shaking, and mind left in shock. You gently touch your fingers to your lips, wondering if that was even real.

Once you gain a sense of mind, you exit the elevator, unable to hide the smile that spreads across your face.

Maybe it’s not such a shitty day after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to message me at my tumblr: @haztory; comments and messages are always welcome


	3. Parents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off of this request: “quit staring! they’ll notice us!” + “real smooth, tripping over air.” with Frank?? It seems like such a pure combination and I’m interested to see your take on it
> 
> This one is an au! ish kind of thing. so we'll see how it goes. (also im a huge fan of making frank have a good life and having him be happy and healthy so sue me)

“Babe, this is stupid.”

“It’s not stupid. It’s necessary.”

You put the menu you were holding down onto the table, staring unconvincingly at your husband at the opposite side of the booth, with that slight head tilt that just lets him know how much you  _hate_ this idea.

“Spying on our daughter as she is on a date is  _not_  necessary.”

He keeps his eyes trained on the young couple seated a few tables away—far enough for you two not to be noticed but still close to where he can see everything—watching every move and every look the teenagers give each other, “She’s sixteen. It’s necessary.”

You roll your eyes at him, returning your gaze back to the menu at hand. You aren’t that hungry–considering this was an impromptu date set up by your husband and you literally made dinner for your two other children thirty minutes before he threw your shoes at you and told you to get in the car– so you aren’t entirely sure what you’re going to order.

The restaurant is nice, nicer than most, with waiters and waitresses wearing white blouses and red aprons and the other diners dressed nicer than just casual clothes compared to your mom jeans and a sweatshirt that you stole from Frank. So, they must have some good food.

“Should I get the scampi?” You ask your husband, who was slinked down in the booth seat, as if that would hide the bulkiness of that man. He’s literally a giant compared to you.

“No. Last time you ordered it you got sick.”

“Was that here?”

“Yeah. Jovie’s birthday.”

You pucker your lips into an “o” shape, slowly nodding your head as you scanned the other items.

After deciding what you were going to order, you place the menu down on the table and look at Frank, only find him mentally drilling holes into your daughter’s date, “Frank, would you  **quit staring! They’ll notice us!** ”

He keeps his eyes trained on them, “I’m slick. They can’t see me.”

You’re not sure if the feelings you are currently feeling for your husband are ones of love or of frustration. With Frank, those come hand in hand, so you really aren’t surprised.

A couple of minutes pass before the waiter finally arrives at your table. He’s a young man who introduces himself as “Mike” before telling you the evening’s specials and asking for your orders.

“I am going to have the ‘Chicken Marsala’ with no mushrooms and… mashed potatoes. I’m in a potatoes mood.” You smile up at the waiter, giving him a smile and handing him the menu. He takes it graciously before turning to your husband, who is leaned over the side of the booth trying to see your daughter despite the waiter’s body blocking the view.

“And for you, sir?” Frank doesn’t notice, keeping his eyes trained on your eldest daughter despite the very uncomfortable position he was in. The waiter takes a glance over at you, nervously wondering what he should do.

You sigh, then look back to the waiter, “He’ll have the 8-ounce sirloin. Medium-rare, with steamed broccoli and… what are your other sides?”

“Mashed potatoes, fries, corn on the cob, and rice.” The waiter happily rattles off.

“He’ll take rice.”

The waiter reaches down to grab Frank’s menu when Frank lets out a huff of laughter, “The boy’s  **real smooth, tripping over air**.” Frank shakes his head, and crosses his arms, his eyes trailing after the boy who was going to the bathroom.

You meet the eyes of the waiter and point to the wine bottle in the middle of your table, “Keep this thing coming, would ya?”

The waiter laughs and nods his head, “Sure thing, ma’am.”

As he leaves, you take your wine glass and down the whole thing within a couple of seconds.

“Frank,” you say in a sing-song voice. Frank hums in response.

“I had a more interesting conversation with the waiter than I have with you. And I was ordering.”

For the first time that evening, he tears his eyes away from the other table and looks at you, “Told you, you didn’t have to come.”

“And let you ruin our daughter’s first date?” You brace your forearms against the table, scoffing at your husband, “Who do you think I am?”

That earns a chuckle from Frank. He scratches his bearded jaw, giving you a lopsided smile, “You’re tough as shit, Mrs. Castle.”

You grab the wine bottle from the middle of the table, pouring the liquid into your glass, “Damn straight.”

You place your elbow on the table, propping your head against your hand and looking around the room at the decorations placed along the walls, softly humming to the Frank Sinatra song playing overhead.

Bored of the silence between you two, you turn to look at what Frank was looking at. There sat your daughter, in a beautiful burgundy dress with her long curly hair cascading down her back and the small wedged high heeled shoes, alongside her date who was dressed in a blue button down tucked into his pants and a bow-tie (which really was overkill considering the restaurant wasn’t  _that_  nice, but it’s still cute).

It puts a smile on your face, to see the two engaging in a fun, yet awkward experience with one another. It leaves you with a happy feeling in your stomach. You turn back around to face your husband, who is starkly the opposite of you, with a scowl on his face and murder written in his eyes.

“Babe,” you reach across the table to grab his hand, “Do you not trust our daughter or something?”

His hand lays limp in yours, despite you brushing your thumb over the back of his hand, “It’s not her I don’t trust.”

“I met Evan’s mom. He seems like a good kid.”

“He’s sixteen. Sixteen year olds only got one thing on their minds.” You drop Frank’s hand in frustration, grumpily leaning against your booth and crossing your arms over your chest.

“No they don’t.”

“You wanna bet? ‘Sides, meeting his mom doesn’t mean anything.”

“Look, babe. Could you just relax? It’s a date. Not the end of the world.” He looks down at his hands, grumpily muttering to himself.

“We raised a good kid, right?” You ask him, leaning your head to the side to try and meet his darting gaze.

“Yeah,” he mutters.

“I mean, I might be biased, but I think we raised a fantastic kid. Smart, kind, funny, and incredibly strong, thanks to you,” you tell him, drawing his attention away from the marble table to your soft eyes and gentle smile, “You don’t need to worry. If anything goes wrong, she’ll kick anyone’s ass and then let us know. Okay?”

He nods his head, “Yeah, okay.”

“Okay. Now can we please enjoy this dinner. It’s probably the only date night we’re going to have for a while and I want to enjoy the babysitter while we have her.”

Frank smiles at you, nodding once again, “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head again, “Don’t be. You’re a good father. It’s one of the many things I love about you.” You lean forward against the table, puckering your lips in want of a kiss. Frank meets you half way, placing a sweet kiss on your lips.

“Love you,” he whispers against your lips. You give one more kiss before splitting apart, giving each other large smiles that could rival those of the young teenagers.

The rest of the evening goes off smoothly, with Frank making the occasional glances to the couple but keeping most of his focus on you, asking the basic questions of “How was work?” and “Did you finally tell that lady to shove it?”.

You enjoy the night, eating dinner and laughing with your husband for the first time in a while.

While Frank is paying the check, you look at your phone and send the babysitter a quick text to let her know that you would be returning home soon, when a new text pops up on your phone.

It’s from your daughter.

**_Hope you enjoyed dinner._ **

You look over your shoulder to the booth she and her date were seated at, to see her staring at you and Frank. She gives you a smile and a wave. You give her one in return. You turn back to Frank, staring very lovingly at him which prompts him to furrow his brows in confusion.

“What?” He asks.

You shrug your shoulders, “We raised a good kid.”

He steps out of the booth, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket, coming over to your side of the booth and leaning down to place a kiss on your forehead.

“All because of you, mama.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to message me at my tumblr: @haztory; comments and messages are always welcome


	4. "Okay, it was me.. so?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off of this request: Hi! Can you do "okay it was me ... so?" and "actually i just miss you"? Thanks!! You are great!!

You're very confused as to why you are awake.

Your heavy eyelids open despite all protests, revealing your dark room lit only by the moonlight flooding in through the windows and the alarm clock blaring in bright, red numbers “3:41 AM”. There’s silence throughout your apartment, which only further adds to the confusion your sleepy head was deperately trying to processing.

You close your eyes again, ready to just fall asleep again when you hear why you woke up.

There’s an incessant banging on your front door.

You let out a groan and a string of curses, throwing your comforter to the side and grumpily gettting out of bed.

You’re only in your underwear and a thin, black tank top, but you could literally care less.

If someone was going to wake you up at three in the morning, they obviously weren’t expecting you to be your best. But you can never be too sure about people these days.

You open the drawer on the table beside your bed and grab the gun that was sat there, waiting for your use. You press the magazine release button on the side of the gun and check the magazine, making sure it was loaded.

You’re good to fire seven bullets into whoever was trying to demolish your fucking door at three in the  _fucking_  morning.

“I’m coming!” you yell at the uninvited guest, trudging your way to the front door and unlocking it, but leaving the chain above you still attached.

You open the door as far as the chain would let you, squinting at the sudden change of lighting from the hallway and blinking repeatedly until the person in front of you can come into focus.

You let out an even louder groan when you realize who it is.

“I  _really_  don’t want to do this now,” you tell him, leaning your head against the door frame. He keeps his eyes trained on you, a less than pleased look on his face.

“Open the door.”

You roll your eyes at him, closing the door and undoing the chain before leaving to sit on your couch. He can open the door by himself.

You throw yourself across the couch and grab the throw blanket on the coffe table beside your raggedy couch, placing the gun on the coffee table.You watch him open the door and enter your tiny apartment.

Frank is dressed in his casual apparel of a heavy black jacket with matching cargo pants and construction boots, as if that would disguise his identity. You know, to try and blend into the night or whatever. It literally only makes him stand out like a sore thumb.

He’s got that scowl that seems to be permanently stitched onto his face with globs of dried blood accentuating his grumpy features. He stands like a giant in the middle of your living room, watching you with hollow eyes as you wrap the soft blanket around your half naked body.

You finally settle against the couch and stare at him with an equally hollow look, twitching your eyebrows up, “Wassup?”

He gives you a deadpan look, his body exuding annoyance, “Did you light all of Union Cargo’s things on fire?”

Wow. Straight to the point. But in all honesty, you don’t expect anything else from him.

You shrug your shoulders lazily at him, which only serves to annoy him further, “I know of no such thing.”

Frank rolls his eyes at you and if he rolled them any harder you’re pretty sure they would get stuck in the back of his head. He places his hands on his hips like such a  _dad_  that you have to fight the urge to laugh.

Frank runs a hand over his jaw and takes a deep breath, looking over at the front door before looking back at you, as if he’s gathering his strength, “So, you’re telling me that you, a pyrokinetic, did not destroy the cargo of a company that I told you I was targeting, by lighting the whole damn thing on fire?”

You stare at him, blinking slowly as he gave you an expectant look. You’re trying hard to keep your resolve together by keeping your face neutral despite his eyes drilling into yours.

It’s difficult.

“The evidence is stacked up against you.”

Like really difficult.

“Has your name written  _all_  over it.”

But you can do it.

You’ve endured torture. You can handle a stare down with Frank Castle.

“I made your job easier.”

Nevermind. Apparently you’re not as strong as you thought you were.

“Jesus Christ, (Y/N).” Frank scoffs, rubbing a hand over his face.

You lean forward on the couch, throwing your hands in the air, “ **Okay, it was me…so?** ”

He moves forward, heading to sit beside you on the couch. He gives your blanketed legs a double tap, silently asking you to move. You lift your legs up, allowing him enough room to sit down, before placing your legs on his lap.

He sits down with a sigh, resting his head against the back of the couch and silently decompressing the built up tension in his body. His shoulders drop and his eyes close with his breaths beginning to evenout.

The sight makes you feel good, to know that out of all the places, he can relax in your home. Even if you did just stress him out.

“What’s the problem?” you ask him, unfazed by the occasional squeezes he does to your wrapped foot.

“Crates had some shit I needed. Can’t get it if the whole thing is burned to hell and the place is swarmin’ with cops.” Despite the lack of emotion on his face, his voice conveys his current state of emotions: disappointment, frustration, etc. It makes your stomach sink to realize that you are the cause of such negative emotions.

It’s an awful feeling.

Good thing it’s temporary.

You hum in response to him, nodding your head even though he couldn’t see it.

“Well,” you sigh, “It’s a good thing I got all the files before I burnt the place down.”

Frank’s head shoots up and snaps towards you, his face contorted into one of confusion as he looks at you with wide eyes and a deep wrinkle between his eyebrows. You smile at him, reaching over to the corner table beside your couch and pulling out the drawer, bringing out a so large that it required two hands in order to hold it.

You present it to with a smug look on your face that is completely opposite of his subtly shocked one, “What? Do you really have  _that_  little faith in me?”

He glances from the file, then back to your face, silently asking for permission to take it. You nod in response. Frank delicately grabs the large file, as though it were a prized possession and places it on top of your feet that were sitting in his lap.

“I thought it was gonna be fun. Y'know, to act like I was a spy again and try to infiltrate a heavily guarded crate with top-secret information,” you tell him, leaning back against the arm of the couch and sinking down in the seat to make yourself comfortable, “But it was literally the opposite of that.”

A lopsided smile spreads across his face as he turns his head to look at you, “What? Not enough explosions for you?”

“Well that too,” you smile back at him and it’s a genuine smile, the ones that you always have whenever he’s around, “ **Actually, I just missed you.**  It’s not as much fun going on late night jobs without your partner.”

Frank gives a small shake of his head, maintaining eye contact with you that felt much more personal than it probably was.

Maybe it was just you.

“No, it’s not.” He tells you, before switching his attention back to the file on his lap (your feet). A comfortable silence invades the room as he focuses all of his attention to scanning the pages upon pages of information stored within the file, while you were much more content to just observe him.

You can see all the twitches and slight breaks in his face from the slight raising of the eyebrows to the widening of his eyes and the licking of his lips. Nothing goes without notice.

It takes a while but he finally reaches the end of the file (although you know that won’t be the last time he looks at it). He’s already shed his large jacket and you are almost on the brink of sleep, with your eyes drooping and your breaths slowing down.

Frank throws the file on the coffee table, the loud slap jolting you awake. You sit up, rubbing your eyes with the palms of your hands before looking at him once again.

He seems much happier, no longer frustrated at the idea of having to do more work. You’ve made his job much easier and the gratitude is apparent when he gives you a slight nod in thanks.

You know that is all you’ll get from him, so you return the sentiment with a nod of your own.

The eye contact is maintained for a few seconds more, a myriad of silent statements being communicated between you two, before you move you feet from his lap and stand from the couch.

“Well,” you stretch your body out, raising your arms above your head and releasing the stiffness from your shoulders, “I’m going back to bed to try and continue the dream that you  _rudely_  interrupted.”

Frank huffs out a breath of amusement, watching as you drag the large blanket around your shoulders to your bedroom adjacent to the living room. Once you reach the doorway, you glance over your shoulder to him, your eyes filled with a mischievous glint that he’s come to adore.

“You coming?” you ask him, your voice dropped a couple of octaves that to any normal person would sound ridiculous, but to Frank was so characteristically  _you_  that he has to find it sexy, cause you, in general, manage to get his blood pumping with even the slightest of looks.

He pinches his bottom lip between his index and thumb, rubbing it back and forth in a very appetizing way.

(Were you really going to go back to sleep? Who knows? Depends on his answer.)

“Yes ma'am.” His voice is deep and rich as he stands up from the couch, meeting you at the doorway.

(Nope. You’re not going back to sleep.

You are  _very_  okay with that.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to message me at my tumblr: @haztory; comments and messages are always welcome


	5. "You fucking suck."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off of this request: Hi babe can you do "hey... that wasn't so hard." and "forget it. you fucking suck" with frank? something funny or fluffy preferably... or not angsty lol! thanks!

There’s a loud sound of something ripping behind the closed door to the bathroom that instantly piques Frank’s attention. He trails his eyes to the door.

“Fuck!” Is soon heard afterwards.

Frank leans down from his chair seated near the bathroom door in the safe house’s bedroom, grabbing a shotgun from one of the large boxes on the floor. He places the weapon on his lap, carefully and methodically taking the device apart and placimg pieces on the wooden table in front of him, next to the bowl of water, a damp rag and a bottle of degreaser placed there.

“Y'alright in there?”

“Yeah, I think?” he hears you respond, your voice breathless and strained, followed by grunts, “It’s the- what the fuck? I have a waist trainer on and I still can’t get this fucking dress to–”

Frank stops his disassembling of the gun once your voice stops. He shifts his eyes towards the closed door once again. You’re quiet for a few seconds before he hears some ruffling of what he assumes is the dress, a long ziiiiip! and then a pleasant “Oh!”.

“Hey,” you speak out again, sounding much more enthusiastic, “I got it!”

Franks exhales a breath of laughter through his nose, placing the last peice of the shotgun on the coffee table and grabbing the bottle of degreaser. He sprays the liquid over the various parts of the shotgun, maneuvering the bottle into narrow crevices and watching the liquid foam into white bubbles.

He’s attentive to his work, avoiding the springs and the small, loose pieces of the large gun.

It’s therapeutic, cleaning his gun. He’s careful and precise, treating the weapon with more delicacy and respect than he does for real people. He handles the gun as if it were more than just a tool he uses to execute. His gun is the deliverer of justice, and he is the judge, jury and executioner.

When Frank Castle is out exacting his revenge and his teachings upon the hellish creatures that crawl out into the night, there is no law and order, there is no prosecutor or defender.

There’s only the Punisher. And you’re in his courthouse, now.

His focus is maintained on the intircate detailings of the gun when he hears the creak of the wooden bathroom door open. You clear your throat.

“Well,” Frank looks up from his gun, his eyes taking in your appearance, “How do I look?”

He doesn’t know what the hell you were struggling to put on in the bathroom, cause the dress fits you like a dream. The long, red gown fits every curve on your body, with a slit on the right that reaches your mid thigh, exposing the entirety of your right leg for the world to see. The plunging neckline reveals a bit of skin that is more than capable of turning a few heads at the event you were attending, and it must be a sin to look that good.

You have yet to do your hair and makeup, but Frank is pretty sure you don’t even need it. The dress is enough to captivate a room.

You look at him with raised eyebrows and your bottom lip pulled in between your teeth, fiddling with your fingers as you anxiously await his answer.

Frank has to tear his eyes away from you and return his attention back to his gun, otherwise he might cross a line he wasn’t ready to cross yet.

“Looks like you’re wearing a dress.”

Your body slumps, the raised eyebrows and shoulders that waited for his answer sinking with the lack of a compliment.

You give the top of Frank’s head a glare, narrowing your eyes at the patch of dark hair on his big head before moving towards the queen-sized bed in the center of the room where your belongings are placed. You grumpily sit on the made bed, roughly grabbing your earrings and putting them into you ears.

“Would it kill you to give me a compliment every once in a while?”

“You want me to compliment you for doing what you were supposed to?”

“What I want is for you to compliment me for looking nice.”

“So, what you were supposed to do.”

You grab the pillow placed at the headboard and throw it at his head. It hits him, but barely does the damage you wished it would’ve. He turns his head to you, staring at you as he puts his gun back together. He’s done this so many times he doesn’t even need to look. Prick.

“You know, I’m not the one who needs information from some greedy politician. I can easily walk out of this building, go back home and eat good food rather than starve myself the entire night. I don’t have to be here. I’m doing this for you, butthead.”

You cross your arms over your chest. You give him an expectant stare, hoping that maybe he would realize how much of a favor you are doing for him and just give you what you want. Cause you’re not asking for a lot. 

Instead, he finishes putting the weapon back together and gives you a hard stare as he cocks it, before moving onto the next gun.

You let out a loud groan, standing up and going back to the bathroom to resume your dressing, “Forget it. You fucking suck.”

Almost an hour later, you’ve finally perfected your hair and makeup as he finished cleaning the last of his guns to use for tonight. The plan was for you to enter a dinner party under a different alias and try and find any information on the inner workings of a politicians underground ring, while he was on watch.

He would’ve gladly just grabbed the guy and beat him until he vomited his information, but you made it very clear to him that that was not a smart idea seeing as how a) the man is a very public man with security around him 24/7 and b) you wouldn’t get anything unless you killed him, which for a high profile man, isn’t necessarily a great idea.

You’re leaning against the door frame, slipping on your silver open toed shoes, when a pair of boots enter your line of sight. You close the clasp on your shoe before standing up straight. Even with your heels, you’re still significantly shorter than him.

He hands you your handbag with all the necessary concealed weapons you would need in case something were to go awry, alongside the tiny ear peice he holds in the palm of his open hand.

You take the small device and place it into your ear, tapping the button to turn it on.

“Testing. 1, 2, 3,” you speak monotonously, watching Frank nod his head, letting you know that it works. 

“Run over the plan again.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes like a petulant child but you have every right to, so ha.

“Go in, mingle, get as close as possible, get information, then get out. That sum it up for you?”

“Keep me updated.”

“I know how these things work Frank. Former spy, remember?” You give him a dead stare, obviously wanting to get away from him as soon as possible. 

He lets out a small laugh, looking down at the floor and nodding his head. His laughter irks you, for no reason. God, you really are a child.

“Fine. Let’s go.”

You turn to head out of the bedroom when Frank’s hand catches your wrist, pulling you back to face him. He looks down at your confused face, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“You look good.”

And just like that, all the anger is gone, with a smile that slowly but surely spreads across your face, the happiness expressing itself in every wrinkle and line and dip in your face.

You gently punch his shoulder, “Hey… that wasn’t so hard.”

“Don’t push it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to message me at my tumblr: @haztory; comments and messages are always welcome

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to message me on my tumblr: @haztory; comments are always welcome!!


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